A Flayed Man
by jsharrypotterfan
Summary: A man from America dies to find himself in the body of the newborn Heir to the Dreadfort, Domeric Bolton. He will do anything to change the events he knows are coming, even defy the Leech Lord himself. SelfInsert/Dany Robb/Margaery
1. A Naked Man Has Few Secrets

Author's Note: I do not own any aspect of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire, these belong to HBO and George R.R. Martin respectively.

A Naked Man Has Few Secrets

I was driving down the road, rain pelting the windshield of my car. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, an eighteen-wheeler comes into view, driving in the wrong lane. I experienced a brief moment of panic before it struck and I knew no more. I lived in warm darkness for some time, feeling almost suffocated. Finally, pain and light. I could suddenly see, but everything looked strange…out of proportion, as though I was a man in a world of giants. A pair of hands grasped my body and lifted me up as I gave a wordless cry of shock. A voice spoke, shrill and biting, causing me to let loose another cry.

"A healthy son, Lord Bolton. Domeric, the heir of the Dreadfort!" she spoke. My last thought before succumbing to the sweet embrace of sleep was 'Oh fuck'.

-X-

My early childhood was tough, but not overwhelming. My new father, the future traitor to Robb Stark, was distant, leaving my care to a wet-nurse and my mother. I grew up in the great keep of the Dreadfort, home of unspeakable cruelties. My toys were knives and the tales I was told were those of the ancient Red Kings, our ancestors from before the invasion of the Andals, who flayed their enemies whilst still living.

I entertained myself with books, coming to learn the land that I now called home more intimately than I could by either reading the books or watching the television show. I knew that I was somehow in Westeros, a terrifying enough prospect on its own, but also the son of Lord Roose Bolton…a son who died while still young, likely murdered by my bastard (both literally and figuratively) brother Ramsay Snow. Dealing with Ramsay was obviously my first order of business. I gained a reputation as a quiet, intelligent child and soon my father started taking a more active hand in my education, teaching me about the politics of the house and the realm. Knowing what I did about Lord Bolton, I made sure to make my answers to his questions as ruthlessly pragmatic as I could, hoping to earn his approval, which would make my future plans much easier. My mother died, illness taking her swiftly, but I made sure that I did not cry, especially in front of my father. He would despise such an overt show of weakness.

The castle's master-at-arms tutored me in martial combat from a young age. I was told that my skills with a sword were adequate, but that my lance work was incredible, and that I would likely make a fine tourney knight when I came of age. Dissatisfied, I continued to work at my swordplay, knowing that I would likely see far more battles than I would tournaments. I learned how to wield daggers and knives, since I knew that those skills might one day save my life. I kept one on my person at all times, never knowing when I might have need of it.

I began to take an active role in the management of the castle and the surrounding lands. Techniques like crop rotation were unknown to the people of Westeros and soon our fields were nearly overflowing with food that we proceeded to sell to other northern houses at a steep rate. My father was immensely satisfied with my work, especially as House Bolton's wealth and reputation increased. I began to implement military techniques such as the phalanx among my father's men, seeking to make them more disciplined and better able to serve me.

Finally, at age sixteen, I knew I needed to broach the subject of Ramsay. I entered my father's solar, a dark, foreboding place filled with jars of leeches.

"Lord Bolton." I addressed him formally, as was my habit.

"Domeric, why have you come to see me?"

"It concerns a matter which you may well be unaware of. A bastard of yours, named Ramsay and born to a miller's wife, has gained a reputation for torture, rape, and murder along the Weeping Water. He also has been made aware of his parentage and has been heard plotting my death in order to make himself your only heir. He must be dealt with." Roose grit his teeth at the topic.

"And how have you come to know of this?" questioned Roose, skeptical of my information.

"Lord Father, surely you know how such things are learned? The right amount of coin in the right hands, the right ear to the right keyhole, I have developed quite the number of 'little birds' as I have heard that the King's Master of Whispers likes to call them. His presence disturbs your 'peaceful lands' and causes your 'quiet people' to whisper." A minor lie. None of my spies had actually reported that Ramsay plotted to kill me, but they did bring word of his depravities. He and the first Reek had taken to killing and raping anyone they could get their hands on in the woods along the Weeping Water. Roose sighed heavily and answered. He did seem to be impressed at my ability to establish an intelligence network.

"Very well, I will send a contingent of soldiers to kill him. He may be my blood, but if he plots to usurp the Dreadfort, he must die. The curse of kinslaying does not apply to the administration of the King's justice."

"Aye, Lord Father. Also, he is accompanied by another savage who answers to the name of Reek. He is a servant of the bastard and equally guilty."

"Give the men the order yourself. You've made me proud, Domeric. You realize that honor is useless to those who lie in the ground, eaten by maggots. Sometimes, hard choices must be made to ensure the survival of the House."

"Aye, my lord." With a bow of my head, I left my room and inspected the men-at-arms training in the Dreadfort's walls. They stopped as I approached, turning to face me and falling silent. I had gained a reputation as fair but cruel to those who were disobedient.

"Ser Whitehill, I order you to take thirty men-at-arms, fully geared and mounted, and ride down the Weeping Water. Find a bastard of the North named Ramsay Snow, approximately my age, as well as his servant Reek, a vile savage, and bring me their heads for their crimes of rape, torture, and murder in the name of King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, in the name of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, and in the name of Lord Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort. If they have any hostages, see them safe and unharmed back to their homes."

"Aye, my lord. We will leave at once. MEN! You heard him! We ride to administer the King's justice!" It had taken some time to break the Dreadfort men-at-arms of the habits that they had picked up over the course of their lifetimes, but my fearsome reputation had to come from somewhere. They fought as a cohesive unit, pooling their strength together to accomplish what each individual alone could not. I saw them off, relieved that I would soon be rid of the most immediate threat to my life. I returned to my chambers and read for some time, until I heard the sound of the cavalry returning. Of the thirty that had rode out, only twenty-two returned.

"My lord, the bastard was incredibly skilled despite his age and quite insane. Between him, his dogs, and the savage, I lost six good men. Two more remained behind to escort a young girl back to her home. It looked as though she had only just been abducted, so her wounds are minor. Here, my lord, their heads." said the Master-At-Arms, Ser Whitehill, the younger brother of the current Lord Whitehill. Two heads were in the bags he presented and I recognized one immediately. I breathed a sigh of relief as Ramsay Snow's dead eyes stared back at me.

"See them flayed and mounted on spikes in the town with a sign reading 'Rapists'. That ought to help keep the peace." I said with a dark chuckle. Flaying the living was outlawed, but I could do as I pleased with the dead.


	2. Flaying the Kraken

Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. These belong to HBO and George R.R. Martin.

Author's Note: This chapter picks up a few weeks after the previous one, so Domeric is still 16. For the purposes of this story, Dany was born earlier than in canon in 278 AC making her currently 11. However, she will not appear until later in the story.

Flaying the Kraken

 **289 AC, The Dreadfort**

I awoke to someone pounding on my door.

"My lord, your father wishes to see you! The levies have finished assembling!" shouted Ser Whitehill. I jumped out of bed at that. I had been waiting for this moment to come: the Greyjoy Rebellion. I dressed quickly and headed to the great hall, where my father was waiting.

"Lord Bolton, will I be accompanying you?" I questioned, eager to hear the answer. We had received a raven about a week prior, telling us that the Iron Fleet had raided Lannisport, sunk the Lannister fleet, and that Lord Balon Greyjoy had declared himself King of the Iron Islands and independent of the crown.

"I had originally considered leaving you here to rule the Dreadfort, but I think it's time for you to learn what real battle is like. You'll accompany me for the duration of the war. We leave for Winterfell in an hour, gather your things." He spoke in his distinctively quiet voice that never ceased to make me want to yell at him to speak up. With a nod, I returned to my chambers. I strapped on my newly-smithed armor, emblazoned with the flayed man of House Bolton, along with my two daggers and my hand-and-a-half sword. I left the castle to find my father at the stables, climbing onto his horse. I grabbed the reins to my recently-received warhorse that I had named Genghis. He was a black stallion, immensely large, of choleric temper, and made for endurance rather than speed.

We left the Dreadfort under the command of Ser Whitehill as its castellan and headed to Winterfell. The first time I had seen the bastion of House Stark I had been awed and the feeling did not seem to abate with further visits. The Dreadfort was impressive, of that there is little doubt, but Winterfell was an entirely different beast. Winter Town sat below the castle, and I decided to see Ros, who I reckoned to be about my age, once we had met with Lord Stark.

We rode through the great wooden gates, our levies encamping outside the fortress. I observed my father as the leech lord's eyes swept across the holdfast of our liege lord. I noticed the cold glint in his eyes that indicated his disdain, an inherited contempt for the honorable lords of Winterfell. We dismounted, our horses handed off to the stable boy.

"Watch yourself with Genghis, he'll cave in your chest if you're not careful." I warned the boy of ten with a wry grin. I watched his posture shift, betraying his newfound caution around the war-horse.

I planted our banner, resplendent with the image of a man flayed, deep into the ground with a single thrust alongside the banners of the Umbers and the Mormonts. It appeared we were far from the last of Lord Stark's bannermen to arrive. I could see the Karstark host just cresting the last hill approaching Winterfell. We entered the great hall and I got to see my first glimpse of Lord Eddard Stark, the quiet wolf. Not particularly imposing, his form belied the strength necessary to wield the massive great-sword strapped to his back.

"Lord Bolton, it is good to see you here." Greeted Lord Stark. My father nodded but did not reply. I decided to take the initiative and I bent the knee.

"Lord Stark, our blades are sharp and we are eager to see this pitiful attempt at rebellion put to rest. Our men are yours." I said with confidence. He turned to look at me, his assessing gaze seeming to bore into my very soul.

"You must be Domeric. It is a pleasure to finally meet the heir of House Bolton. I thank you for your loyalty, as does King Robert." With a nod, I stood and stepped back behind my father. I knew how this Rebellion would end, but I had change that I wanted to make. Tales had surfaced of Euron Greyjoy's hoarding of treasure aboard the Silence. Whoever captured it would secure an enormous amount of wealth for their house and I was eager to see that treasure in the hands of House Bolton. Not to mention, killing Euron would help secure the Iron Islands for Theon after his father's death. He had escaped unharmed from the Rebellion originally, but I was determined to change that particular event.

We discussed battle plans in the great hall, pouring over maps of the Iron Islands. We were to meet up with the King and his brother Stannis with the Royal Fleet at Lannisport before invading the Iron Islands. Each Island would be assaulted by a different lord paramount before all the King's forces converged on Pyke. I had gone ahead and prepared a little surprise for my father, a name-day present if one wanted to be sentimental. It would be waiting at Lannisport when we arrived. With all the lords who were present briefed on military matters, we broke our conference and enjoyed Lord Stark's hospitality. I wandered the halls of Winterfell until I saw an auburn-haired woman, visibly pregnant, gazing out at the assembled levies.

"My lady, it is a pleasure to see you." While I had never met Lord Eddard before this day, I had met Lady Catelyn. Lord Eddard had been visiting the Wall when I visited Winterfell and it had been she who received me. She turned to me with a gentle smile.

"Domeric, look at you! You're almost a man grown. Although I wish you weren't, so that you might be spared the horrors of the war that is soon to come." Others might find it odd for the Lady of Winterfell to be so amicable with the Heir of the Dreadfort but I could be very charming when I wished to be. When I had first visited I regaled her of my admiration towards her uncle Brynden the Blackfish and was kind to her young son Robb, even playing with him for a short time. I worked hard to present myself far differently to the other northern lords and ladies than I did to my father and the men of the Dreadfort. I wanted them to see me as an honorable future lord, seemingly incapable of the notorious cruelty of my house.

"Unfortunately, my lady, the Ironborn have left us little choice. They may have been content to attack the Westerlands for now, but if these traitorous curs are not cut down, neither the North nor the Riverlands are safe. But enough about such gruesome topics, look at you! You are glowing, my lady. The Old Gods are generous to bless Lord Stark and yourself with another child! It is a shame my mother passed away, I would have very much liked to have a sibling." My words caused her to look at me with both gratefulness and sympathy.

"Thank you for your kind words, Domeric. Your mother was a kind woman and I know she would have been proud of the man you've become." She smiled at me consolingly.

"I hope that is true, my lady. Lord Stark! It is unfortunate that we did not get to meet upon my last visit to your wonderful home!" I turned as he approached. He was quiet, but not nearly as quiet as my father.

"Young Lord Bolton, you have met my wife then?" He looked at me, searching for signs of insincerity.

"Indeed, Lord Stark. Four years ago, my father fell ill and I rode to Winterfell to deliver the reports of our crop production. It is my understanding that you were at the Wall at the time, visiting your brother Benjen."

"Yes, I did visit the Wall around that time. Excuse me and my wife, Heir Bolton." I inclined my head.

"Of course, my lord. I look forward to speaking with you further." Eddard and Catelyn left, walking swiftly down the halls until I could no longer hear their footsteps. I turned towards the window through which Catelyn had been looking and saw the assembled levies of House Umber and House Bolton, apparently having decided to camp close to one another. A smile came to my face as I saw the raised banner of my house. I flipped a silver stag and caught it, heading to the brothel.

-X-

It did not take long for the rest of the northern bannermen to arrive at Winterfell. We departed the castle and headed south along the King's Road within a week of our arrival. I rode beside my father most of the way, but spent time socializing myself with the other northern lords. I also spent some time with Smalljon Umber, the only other heir accompanying us. Smalljon was loud and boisterous, much like his father. He was also a terror with a greatsword. We sparred multiple times during the time the host rested. I was somewhat ashamed that I only managed to best him twice, but was somewhat mollified by the fact that he had four years, at least a foot in height, and probably three stone on me. When we passed through Moat Cailin, I looked calculatingly upon its broken towers. If it alone could be restored, the North's defensive capabilities would increase significantly. It took us two weeks of steady marching to arrive at Lannisport. When we arrived, the city was still attempting to rebuild, having been sacked and pillaged by Euron and Victarion Greyjoy. The smallfolk seemed beaten down and downtrodden. Children, no doubt recently orphaned, cried and begged in the streets. I tossed a handful of silver stags at a group of them.

'As if they weren't bad enough off, being subjects of Tywin Lannister.' I thought, snorting in contempt at the thought of the Lord of Casterly Rock.

We approached the harbor to see the Royal Fleet assembled and ready to depart. And there she was…four decks of stout ironwood, mounted ballistae peeking out from the second deck, the Bolton banner painted on the massive sails, and the carved wooden figurehead of a man flayed of his skin. I turned to my father to see his mouth open in shock, something that I had only seen a handful of times in my life.

"Happy early name-day, Lord Father. I present you with _The Harbinger of Dread_. A ship worthy of the Lord of House Bolton, manned by our loyal bannermen who were instructed in the arts of sailing and ship-to-ship combat by sell-sails I hired from Braavos." He still seemed taken aback, no doubt having expected to be crammed onto some ship of the Royal Fleet.

"Thank you, Domeric. It's magnificent…but how did you pay for it?" questioned Roose.

"All through trade. You've left me in charge of our agricultural production and my innovations produced such a large surplus that House Forrester and House Manderly were willing to provide ironwood and labor in exchange for some of our food." Roose nodded, knowing that he had been negligent in the administration of the hold's finances, largely leaving such matters to me as he nearly blood-letted himself to death on a regular basis. We boarded the massive ship and inspected it. It was everything that I had envisioned. After placing our things in our respective cabins, we journeyed to the command ship, _King Robert's Hammer_. We found Lord Stark, King Robert, and Tywin Lannister in the war cabin along with many of their vassals.

"Lord Bolton, glad you could join us. Where did you get that massive ship?" questioned Lord Stark.

"An early name-day present from my son, my lord. _The Harbinger of Dread_ is at the King's service." Replied Roose.

"Where's this son of yours, Bolton?" spoke a hulking bearded man gruffly. I realized this could only be King Robert himself, clad in the yellow and black of his house, a gigantic Warhammer strapped across his back.

"Here, your Grace. My name is Domeric, Heir to the Dreadfort and your loyal servant." I said with my head bowed. Robert let out a hearty laugh.

"Boy, there's no doubt about your loyalty when you bring a ship like that to the fleet. It's almost a match for my _Hammer_ here. Well come on over, boy, we're planning this damn offensive. You might learn something." I approached the table, which was covered in a map of western Westeros. Heavy lead figurines were situated in different locations, marking the last known locations of the various forces. Four squids were on the table, one at Pyke, one along the Westerland's coasts, one at Fair Isle, and one at Seaguard. Situated at Lannisport were a direwolf, a stag, a crowned stag, a cluster of grapes, and a lion.

"Victarion Greyjoy and his fleet are at Fair Isle. We'll move together to crush him there. He's a cocky bastard and won't try to flee. Afterwards, we'll move to trap Euron along the coast where he's raiding. With those two dead, Rodrik will retreat from Seaguard back to Pyke. Tywin, you'll take Harlaw. Stannis, you'll take Great Wyk. Ser Barristan, you'll lead the assault on Old Wyk. Paxter, you'll seize Orkmont. I'll personally lead the assault on Blacktyde. Ned, you'll take Saltcliffe and blockade Pyke while we're taking the other islands. Once we've taken them, we'll reunite and storm Pyke. Fuck a siege, I've got a kingdom to run. I don't have time to sit around on my ass waiting for these cunts to die of starvation." Robert moved the various figurines around the map, showing how the strategy would work. None of the lord's had any complaints, so everyone began to file out of the room until a messenger burst through the door.

"Your Grace! News from Seaguard! Lord Mallister has killed Rodrik Greyjoy and the Ironborn have been routed!" Cheers rang out at the news and Robert slammed his fist down upon the table in celebration, upturning several of the figurines that lay there.

"Our plans remain the same! Just means less Ironborn to deal with when we storm Pyke! We leave at dawn!" shouted the king.

-X-

As we set sail aboard the _Dread_ , I took a final glance back at Lannisport and Casterly Rock. One day, Tyrion would rule that city if I had anything to say about it. We sailed for three days before Fair Isle came into view, surrounded by a large fleet of long-ships bearing the Greyjoy kraken. We were near the rear of the fleet, allowing Paxter Redwyne and Tywin Lannister the lion's share of the glory of this battle. Nevertheless, as the opposing fleet approached, it was clear to me that none of us would be free of the fighting. Men screamed and died ahead of us until finally we came into range. I personally manned the largest ballista, located at the bow, taking aim at the largest ship I could see and let loose a massive iron bolt. It missed just to the right of where I was aiming. After loading another one, I took careful aim and fired, watching as the bolt shattered the ships starboard hull. Water rushed in, capsizing the vessel in minutes. I managed to sink three more vessels before I heard the call and abandoned the weapon.

"Prepare for boarders!" yelled my father. I drew my sword and argive-handled shield. A ship approached us, seemingly intending to ram us before veering slightly to port and throwing boarding hooks. The show didn't do justice to just how vile these savages looked. They really were pirates. Catching the axe of one of them on my shield, I thrust my sword through the thin leather armor he was wearing.

'Must not have much faith in the Drowned God.' I thought darkly as I shoved him off my sword and down into the water. Seeing my father surrounding by three of the wretches, I fought my way to him, killing three more Ironborn with my sword and breaking one's neck with a thrust of my metal shield. I quickly impaled the one with his back to me before charging at the one to my father's left, leaving him able to focus solely on the one remaining. We locked blades and after a moment disengaged. I slashed at him, hoping to take his arm off, but he shifted at the last second so that instead my razor-sharp blade flayed the skin off the top of his arm, from wrist to elbow. He let out a pained shriek and I quickly slit his throat, ending his pain. Looking around, I noticed my father had dispatched the remaining reaver.

I saw my father's eyes widen as he looked at me and I ducked, bringing my shield around behind me to block the blow of a heavy warhammer. My shield cracked and I felt a sharp pain in my arm, no doubt having bruised the bone. Ignoring the pain, I threw all my weight behind my shield and toppled him off the deck of the ship, where he sunk, laden down with his heavy steel armor. Looking around once more, I saw that the majority of the Ironborn were dead, only a few stragglers left who were quickly being dispatched by other crewmembers of the ship. As for the rest of the battle, it looked as though the Iron Fleet had been thoroughly routed, managing to destroy only a few ships, all of them belonging to the Redwynes. We docked at Fair Isle and I saw that our forces had managed to capture Victarion Greyjoy. He was locked in the dungeons of Faircastle, where he would stay for the rest of the war.

We departed early the next day to stop Euron, who had been reaving and raping along the coasts. While the previous battle had thrilled me, it wasn't what I was really after. I wouldn't be satisfied until my blade was buried in his neck and his treasure was sitting in the holds of the _Dread_. I hoped to make a name for myself here, not unlike Jorah Mormont, who I knew would be knighted for his actions in the storming of Pyke.

We sighted Euron's division of the Iron Fleet around midday, a strong northeasterly wind having carried us right to him. Just north of The Crag, I prepared myself for battle carefully, arming myself with my sword, shield, two daggers, as well as a special little surprise I had custom made for myself. Taking out a Myrish spyglass, inferior to anything from my first life, but still better than nothing, I looked for the _Silence._ I knew Euron would attempt to make a run for it and that was when I would strike. I saw his ship in the northwest corner of the fleet, not leading, and ostensibly attempting to look inconspicuous. I had shared my desire to see Euron's treasures added to our own with my father and he had agreed, giving me leave to command the crew if I spotted the _Silence_. Not that he needed to know that the crew were already preeminently loyal to me.

We engaged the fleet but I ordered the captain to remain back, away from the fighting, waiting with the sails ready to be unfurled. Finally, once it was clear the Ironborn were being massacred, I saw the _Silence_ turn tail and run.

"Full sail! Oars! Hard to port! Catch that one-eyed bastard!" I nearly screamed at the crew. The _Silence_ was quick, without a doubt, but the sheer abundance of our oarsmen saw us slowly gaining on them. After about half an hour, we were within spitting distance.

"Board that ship! Give no quarter! Slaughter every one of those mute cunts who dare to take up arms!" Boarding hooks were thrown and a stream of men filed out of the _Dread_ and onto Euron's ship. Many were cut down but we far outnumbered them. I made my way onto the _Silence_ , its red deck creaking underneath my boots as I searched for Euron. There, at the helm, surrounded by six of his crew. I led the charge towards him with several of my men and finally it was just me and Crow-Eye.

"You're a little young to be playing my game, ya son of a whore. Run back to your mother and maybe I won't make you watch while I rape her." He taunted. I simply stared at him, unimpressed. He lunged with his sword, hoping to end the duel quickly but I side-stepped and slashed at his torso. He parried and tried to move in closer. I let him, just so that I could slam my shield right into his face, breaking his nose and forcing him to drop his sword. Blood gushed from the orifice as he let out an inarticulate cry of rage. He tackled me to the ground and I just barely managed to get my shield up as he battered at it incessantly with the axe in his off-hand. My shield broke and I threw him off, barely escaping the final axe blow that sunk two inches deep into the wooden hull of the ship. I threw off my shield and grabbed a dagger from my belt to wield in my off-hand as we circled each other.

"I'm gonna rape your corpse, you little cunt. I'm gonna butcher you like a cut of beef and offer your entrails to the Drowned God." Raged Euron. We circled each other for a moment before we leapt at each other, him having picked up his sword. I managed to parry his sword strike but the following blow from his axe I merely deflected with my dagger, leaving it to open a long gash on my upper arm. Quicker than I could react, his foot lanced upwards and caught me in the chest, sending me hurling to the deck. He approached me slowly as I lay there with the wind knocked out of me. I looked down to see that my chest plate was actually dented from the force of his kick and I was sure at least two of my ribs were broken, thankfully neither of them had punctured a lung. Finally, he raised his sword and brought it down as I lay helpless to defend myself. Suddenly a blade intersected Euron's as it came down and I looked to see my father, covered in Ironborn blood, preventing Euron's blade from killing me.

"Not today you Ironborn bastard." My father's voice was quiet but menacing, indicative of the cruelty that he was more than willing to deliver to each and every one of his enemies. Their battle was fierce but my father was beginning to show his age. Already tired, he struggled to combat the fearsome Greyjoy lord. Eventually, Euron managed to strike my father across his helmet with his axe, sending him tumbling to the deck, unconscious.

However, in their fight, he seemed to almost forget about me, and now stood just beyond me with his back turned. Seizing my opportunity, I slammed the back of my boot into the deck and thrust my foot between his legs, the small blade I had installed within my boot severing what made him a man. He collapsed screaming and I took my chance. Drawing my last dagger from its sheath on my waist, I leapt upon him and sunk it between his cervical vertebrae, right between his chest plate and helmet. I tried to think of something poignant and witty to say, but I had never been good at being put on the spot so I settled for spitting on his corpse. I went to check on my father, who though unconscious, seemed otherwise fine. I cut off Euron's head and mounted it to the top of my sword, wincing as I lifted it above my head. With their captain dead, the remaining crew of the _Silence_ soon lost heart and were slaughtered to the man.

I yelled at some men to carry my father back to the _Dread_ as I descended into the cargo hold of the _Silence._ While a significant amount of the loot was from the Westerlands and would be returned, I knew that Euron had made voyages to Valyria at some point and I hoped that he had already done so. Luckily, it seemed that he had made at least one. Dragonbinder was not present, but numerous valyrian steel daggers were there, enough to reforge into at least one sword by my eye, as well as numerous large gemstones and three crowns of dragon motif, no doubt those of the Valyrian dragonlords. I ordered my crew to empty the ship's cargo into the _Dread_ and then set it to torch as I saw the maester on board regarding my arm and ribs. As the _Silence_ was burning, I saw that the fleet was approaching us from the southeast, with _King Robert's Hammer_ at the head. I ordered the crew to drop anchor and waited for the King's arrival. Euron's head, removed from my sword, was mounted on a pike to be presented to Robert. The _Hammer_ pulled alongside the _Dread_ and King Robert Baratheon boarded, along with Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jaime Lannister.

"Your grace, Euron Greyjoy." I said as I indicated to the head. Robert's laugh boomed.

"I like you boy. You kill him yourself?" questioned the king.

"Aye. My father and I both fought him, but I struck the killing blow after my father fell. He lives, but took a strong blow to his head and is currently unconscious and being tended to by a maester. The loot the _Silence_ took from the pillaging of the Westerlands sits in my hold, ready to be given back to those from whom it was taken, provided the houses still have heirs. The rest I claim by right of conquest."

"Aye, that's your right." Robert grumbled, no doubt wishing that treasure would be going to the royal treasury instead.

"Impressive, for a boy your age to kill Euron Crow's-Eye." Remarked Ser Barristan. Jaime Lannister muttered his agreement and I inclined my head in thanks before turning back to the king.

"Your grace, where are we laying anchor?"

"Banefort, it's only about six hours away with these winds. We'll feast and then leave on the morrow to end the scourge of these Ironborn sons of whores." I bowed as the king departed, before ordering my crew to sail for Banefort.

-X-

My father still had not woken when it was time to leave Banefort, so I left him there under the care of their maester along with twenty men-at-arms. My injuries would take some time to heal, so I knew that I would not participate much in the coming battles. I ordered the first-mate, Ser Aston Coldwind, a hedge knight knighted by my father for saving his life during Robert's Rebellion, to set sail for Saltcliffe along with the rest of Lord Stark's bannermen. As the island came into view, I began to lightly sing a few words to a song that I remembered from my first life, with a few alterations.

" _Yo ho, all hands,_

 _Hoist the flayed man high._

 _Heave ho, men of the North._

 _Never shall we die_."

To my surprise, the men around me started to join in until the whole crew was shouting it. Who knew? Apparently sailors like to sing. I grinned and held up my hand to indicate silence.

" _Some men have died and some are alive._

 _And others sail on the sea._

 _With a knife in my hand,_

 _And a kraken to skin,_

 _Glory waits for me!"_

After a few repetitions that gave me time to think of a suitable next verse, I raised my hand again.

" _The king has been raised,_

 _From his wine-filled haze_

 _No warrior is his like!_

 _A call to all, pay heed the squall,_

 _And set your sails to Pyke!"_

It took me slightly longer the next time, but I managed to come up with a final verse to teach the men, one I knew would stoke their pride.

" _Me and my men_

 _Stole Crow-Eye's head_

 _And sent him to his god._

 _The seas be ours, and by the powers,_

 _We'll kill Greyjoy as he cowers."_

My grin threatened to split my face as I listened to my crew sing a Westerosi adaptation of a Disney song. I hoped the king wouldn't be insulted by the line about his drinking. The song was sung for some time before someone started _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ , which was sung until we started to land on Saltcliffe. It looked as though there would be minimal resistance, it being mostly occupied by thralls and salt-wives at this point. We secured the small island quickly enough and began making preparations for the blockade of Pyke. I was summoned to the command tent and met with Lord Stark and his fellow bannermen. The plans were finalized and orders given.

-X-

It took just under a moon's time to capture all of the Iron Islands aside from Pyke. Maester Goodwin had tended my wounds carefully and I was near full strength. Finally, the time had come to storm Pyke. We met with King Robert and the other lords on the beaches of Pyke, the Ironborn having apparently decided to not contest the establishment of a beachhead and having retreated into their castle. The gates were closed and I could see men manning the battlements, no doubt ready to make storming the castle extremely costly. However, from what I knew of the rebellion, it seemed that Robert originally used siege engines to break Castle Pyke and force Lord Greyjoy's surrender. As if in answer to my thoughts, I saw men rolling trebuchets out from multiple ships and setting them along the beach.

"We'll break down their walls with the trebuchets and then storm the castle and slaughter any man who holds a sword. Any questions, objections? No. Good. Commence the bombardment." Ordered King Robert. I watched in awe as the trebuchets launched massive stones into the walls of Castle Pyke, the screams of the dying reaching me even here hundreds of yards away. The bombardment continued for nearly an hour before the King signaled it to stop and Thoros of Myr hefted his wildfire doused greatsword and charged. I drew my sword and followed a young Jorah Mormont into the breach, picking off each and every Ironborn I could find. We were met with little resistance due to the length of the bombardment. After repeating the process with the Bloody Keep and the Kitchen Keep, white flags flew from the Seatower. King Robert, Lord Stark, and Lord Stannis went to negotiate terms and, as expected, Theon was to be taken as a ward in the care of House Stark.

As we prepared to leave Pyke, I was summoned by the King, which gave me hope that I would be joining Jorah Mormont for a knighting. I saw him approaching the King's tent and we both entered to find the King, Lord Stark, Lord Jeor Mormont, and surprisingly to me, my father, having recovered from his injuries aboard the _Silence._ I was thrilled that not only had I managed to secure the treasure of the _Silence_ for my house, but I was also being raised to knighthood without the tedious time spent as a page and squire.

"Kneel." Commanded the king. We did so.

"Jorah of House Mormont, in the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women." Stated the king as he tapped Jorah's shoulders with his rarely-used sword. He moved over to me.

"Domeric of House Bolton, in the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women. Rise as knights of the realm." We rose, bowing to the king and I looked to my father. His face was blank, as usual, but his eyes were softer, a sign I had learned to mean he was proud of me. The king clapped me on the shoulder roughly.

"Now what's this I hear about a song…?"


	3. Ramsay's Revenge

Author's Note: I do not own any aspect of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. These belong to HBO and George R.R. Martin respectively.

Ramsay's Revenge

Luckily, my attempts at being a bard garnered more of King Robert's amusement than his ire. We even shared a cup of ale as the preparations were made for the fleet to sail home. After the knighting I continued the efforts to make the _Dread_ ready for its return voyage, my father having decided to join Lord Stark and the rest of the Northmen on what was essentially a taxi ride to Torrhen's Square, courtesy of the Royal Fleet. I, however, had decided to make the long journey around Westeros with my men. We set sail at dawn, my ship…I mean my father's ship heavily laden with the spoils of the war. It took seven days to make port in Casterly Rock, having to fight the wind nearly the whole way there. We offloaded only a few crates of gold and jewels, little of our haul being sufficiently recognizable that I was forced to part with it for the sake of 'honor'.

We set sail immediately following, and continued south. We made port in Oldtown, Sunspear, and Gulltown to resupply and give the men a break from the monotony of a long sea voyage. The journey, all told, took nearly two moons, but we were soon rowing gently down the Weeping Water as the Dreadfort came into view. I let loose a sigh as the reassuring sight of my home, eager to be off the damn boat. The docks, still a work in progress, lined the bank of the river. I disembarked and ordered the men to unload the cargo.

"If as much as one item is missing, I'll personally feed the hands of the one responsible to the kennelmaster's dogs!" I yelled. I entered the Dreadfort's great hall to see my father eating. Saying nothing, I pulled out a chair and gestured for the serving wench to bring me some ale. Loading my plate with roasted boar and succulent mashed potatoes, I dug in while I was waiting for my drink. The silence may have seemed awkward to some, but not to me. I knew my father was proud of the work I had done and as we sat and ate, men were loading nearly a million gold dragon's worth of plunder into our treasury. Finally, he took a long drink from his cup of hippocras and spoke.

"The journey was uneventful, I take it?"

"Aye, Lord Father. We were taken upon by three pirate vessels are we rounded Dorne, but they were killed and the treasures in their holds added to ours."

"Good. Now would you-" Roose paused mid-sentence, which immediately drew my attention. He coughed, blood coming out of his mouth and spraying the table in front of him. Blood began to gush from his nose, his ears, and his eyes. I leapt out of my chair and pulled him to the ground, laying him on his back.

"MAESTER! Get the maester!" I yelled. Blood continued to pour out of all of his orifices. Attendants rushed into the great hall, Maester Goodwin at their head, for whom I moved aside. It took mere moments for my father to expire. I seized his cup and sniffed. The spices in the drink made it difficult but I detected a very faint hint of something off. I didn't know what it was, but it certainly wasn't hippocras. Filled with an all-consuming rage, I turned to Ser Whitehill.

"This was poison. I want every single servant brought before me. I will know who is responsible for this if I have to flay every last one of them!" He nodded grimly and turned, gesturing for a dozen men-at-arms to follow him.

I paced back and forth as my father's corpse was taken by several servants. While his death did provide me with some benefits, notably that I would now be Lord of the Dreadfort, it also greatly inconvenienced me. Not to mention, while Roose had been ruthless and cold, he was still my father in this life, still the man whose approval I constantly sought, and my only remaining parent. I also knew that at least some of the blame for his death had to be laid at my feet. Roose had lived over a decade longer in canon and I could not for the life of me figure out what I could have done to cause this as a result. After a short time, Ser Whitehill came bursting into the hall, a woman trailing behind him restrained by two men-at-arms. I seized a knife off of the table and approached her.

"Who is this woman, Ser Whitehill?" I questioned.

"A serving wench we caught trying to flee, my lord. She used to be a miller's wife, but sought employment in the castle in preparation for the coming winter." Suddenly it was clear. As I looked at her face, I could see the features of Ramsay Snow, older, more feminine, but present regardless. It appears that I had underestimated the love a mother could have for her son, no matter what kind of monster he grew up to be. I reached out and grabbed her by the throat. She started to choke as I looked her in the eyes.

"You were that beast's mother, weren't you?"

"His name was Ramsay! And he was my baby boy! And he killed him!" shrieked the woman. I leaned forward and held the knife to her throat as I whispered into her ear.

"He was a beast. He was an animal that needed to be put down. And I was the one who ordered him killed." Her eyes widened before I threw her to the ground roughly.

"Ser Whitehill, fetch me my sword and the block. Assemble the people in the square. The man who gives the sentence swings the sword."

-X-

I gazed out at the assembled smallfolk of the Dreadfort and its surrounding town. A small dais had been erected and there sat the block. I strode forward onto the dais and addressed the crowd.

"My father, Lord Roose Bolton, is dead. Brought down by poison, the weapon of a craven. We gather here to see justice carried out and to see my father, your lord, avenged. Bring forth the prisoner." Ser Whitehill dragged the woman, kicking and screaming, forward and thrust her down on the block. I drew my sword from its scabbard and walked towards her.

"For the crime of murder and treason against your lord, I, Domeric Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, sentence you to die in the name of King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, and in the name of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North. Do you have any last words?"

"You killed my son! I'll kill-" I cut off her vile rant with a single swing of my sword, the castle-forged steel separating head from body in a single instant. Her head tumbled forward and some of her blood squirted onto my boots. I turned towards the crowd and they began to kneel, slowly at first, but with increasing frequency until every one of them was in a posture of submission.

"Rise. As our liege lords like to say, winter is coming, and while I know I am young, I have the greatest confidence that House Bolton, and all who serve this house, will prosper as never before under my leadership despite the coming winter. We will not let the actions of a madwoman, crazed with vengeance, bring us low. We are House Bolton and our blades are sharp!" Cheers of approval echoed my speech as I held my sword, still coated in blood, aloft. I returned to the castle and began the tedious process of taking control of the Dreadfort and the surrounding lands. The action I took perhaps the most relish in, aside from avenging my father, was to take his leaches and toss each of them into a brazier, watching as they slowly burned.

"Maester Goodwin, send ravens to all the major keeps of the North informing the lords of the circumstances of my father's death. Tell Lord Stark that I will present myself at Winterfell in a fortnight to bend the knee."

"Aye, my lord." The maester, a kindly man around fifty years of age, nodded in acquiescence and scampered off, his chain jingling as he moved.

"Ser Whitehill, see to it that the smallfolk are notified that due to the coming winter, anyone caught stealing will be sent to Wall, or, if the roads are impassible, summarily executed. We will soon be under siege and our enemy is winter."

"Aye, my lord." He bowed and left the room. I sighed and toyed with a few papers, glancing around my new solar grimly. Hopefully, the increased harvests would be sufficient to keep my people fed, especially since I knew this would be a short winter.

-X-

Genghis neighed loudly as we crested the last hill approaching Winterfell. With me were twenty men-at-arms, a sufficient escort to frighten off any would-be highwaymen. The weather was calm but chilling, even by northern standards, the last few days of autumn being upon us. As we rode through the gates, I let my men leave to entertain themselves. Tossing a copper at the stable boy, I entered the great hall. There stood Lord Stark, his wife, holding the baby Arya, and a young Robb. Skulking in the corner, apart from the rest of the family, was Jon Snow, a dour look on his face even at this age. Both Sansa and Theon were nowhere to be seen. I could see how Lady Catelyn's eyes darted towards Jon occasionally and how her eyes would fill with disdain.

"Dom!" the young heir of Winterfell exclaimed as he rushed to greet me. The boy of six nearly tackled me and I ruffled his hair as I approached the lord of Winterfell and fell to my knee.

"My lord, I come her to reaffirm the pledge of fealty of House Bolton to House Stark. Our banners are yours, should you ever have need of them."

"Your oath is accepted, Lord Bolton. And I offer you my condolences for the death of your father. He and I did not always see eye to eye, but he was a loyal vassal and a fine lord of House Bolton." I rose and bowed my head in gratitude. I turned to Robb.

"And how's your swordplay? Been practicing those moves I showed you? They saved my life in the Greyjoy rebellion, you know." Robb was an enthusiastic child, having taken to learning swordplay at age five and his eyes widened at my proclamation. He was alright for his age and while we were waiting for Lord Stark's other bannermen to arrive for the march south, I had joined Ser Rodrik, the Winterfell master-at-arms, in instructing the young boy. I was far from a master swordsman, but Robb was still just a novice and I was able to step into the role of instructor easily enough, having been instructed by Ser Whitehill myself. His half-brother was much better, seemingly born to weird a blade.

"Yeah Dom! Ser Rodrik says I've gotten a lot better!" he exclaimed with all the enthusiasm of a child his age.

"Good, one day you'll be Warden of the North and you'll need to be an excellent warrior if you're going to lead me into battle." I said with a grin. Ned smiled gently at our interaction.

"Lord Stark, I thank you for welcoming me into your home. Might I impose on you for some dinner, the ride has left me famished."

"Of course, Lord Bolton. We were just about to eat. Join us and tell me how the preparations for winter are coming in your hold. I took the seat to Lord Stark's right, his wife seated to his left. To my right was Jon Snow and I gave him a light smile. My conversations with the bastard of Winterfell had been fewer than the ones I had with the heir, but I made sure to ingratiate myself in a small way with the boy who would one day be Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

"Our larders and grain stores are full, my lord. I've enacted strict punishments for thievery and made as much room as I could at the Dreadfort for the smallfolk. Like every winter, some of the smallfolk will doubtless perish, but I'm hoping to make that number as small as possible. We've done the math and have sufficient food for a five year winter, by our current estimations. If the winter lasts longer than that, I will send the _Dread_ to the free cities to trade some of the gold we seized from the Ironborn for food." I knew of course that the winter would barely last a year, but I had to keep up appearances. Trading away all of our food with winter imminent would be seen as foolishness at best and cruelty at worst. It irked me, knowing that food was at its most valuable now, but sacrifices had to be made.

"You do well despite your youth, Lord Bolton. The Citadel predicts a short winter, but they cannot be relied upon when they have been known to be wrong before." I took a sip of my wine and replied.

"Aye, my lord. Those were my thoughts as well. I've heard the tale of Torrhen Blackmarsh." I said with a chuckle. The story was a grim one, but was told to every young lord of the North. Torrhen Blackmarsh had been lord of a house sworn to House Stark two centuries ago. He failed to heed the warnings of his liege lord and the Citadel and only stored enough grain for a year. The coming winter had lasted for six years and by its end, every member of House Blackmarsh had died of starvation, ending their line and leaving Moat Cailin without a hereditary lord. It was told as a harsh warning of the dangers of winter.

"Have you considered any prospects for marriage? Normally that would be a parent's responsibility, but these unfortunate circumstances have placed that burden upon your shoulders." Questioned Lady Catelyn demurely.

"No, my lady. To be perfectly honest, I haven't given it much thought. Currently though, I'm still too new to the burdens of lordship to consider taking a bride. Perhaps in a few years, I'll see about finding a suitable match." This wasn't true, strictly speaking. I had given it some thought, but all the women who I knew would be great beauties by the time of the War of the Five Kings were still much too young to be considered. I resolved to wait until that time, when a marriage might bring greater aid in more dire circumstances.

"I would be more than willing to aid you in finding a suitable match when you decide you're ready, Domeric." Offered Lady Catelyn.

"Thank you, my lady. I won't hesitate to seek your aid when the time comes. Until then, perhaps your expertise might be put to use by your uncle. It is remarkable that a knight of such renown as the Blackfish is still unwed." She grumbled at the mention of her uncle's unmarried state, no doubt having tried to do such a thing before and been as unsuccessful as her father, Lord Tully.

"Keep in mind that a match for political purposes need not be devoid of love. Mine and Cat's marriage was arranged out of political necessity, but we've come to love each other greatly." Advised Ned. I nodded in agreement, having seen the tenderness that the two had for each other.

"I will certainly keep that in mind, my lord. By my reckoning, there are enough enemies in this world without adding another waiting in our bedchamber."

"Well-said, Domeric." I took a long sip of wine, digging into the feast before me. Conversation was amicable and I did my best to present myself as a foil to my father, making japes and drinking my fill of wine. Afterwards, I retired to the rooms prepared for me and there, awaiting me, was a beautiful redhead.

"Mi'lord, it is a _pleasure_ to see you again." She almost moaned out. A grin stretched across my face from ear to ear as I nearly pounced upon Ros. The tricks I had learned in post-sexual revolution America had so impressed her at our last meeting that she had initially refused my coin. I had none of that, and gave her five gold dragons, far more than what her services was conventionally worth. Luckily for her, my coin purse was full tonight and I was a generous lord.

We departed for the Dreadfort the next day and I was eager to be back home. With each day passing, I could feel the wind growing colder. When we arrived, I received reports from Ser Whitehill that three thieves had been caught attempting to steal grain and had already been sent to the Wall, per my standing orders. I retired to my solar and pondered the War of the Five Kings. Obviously Joffrey, vicious cunt that he was, was unsuitable, as was Tommen, although through no fault of his own. Stannis, at least while he remained a puppet of Melisandre, was likewise unsuitable. Renly would simply be another coming of Robert, with the whores exchanged for young men, Loras Tyrell chief among them. Robb, much as I liked him, would fracture the kingdoms and leave us vulnerable to the coming threat from beyond the Wall. Balon Greyjoy was a pathetic worm, not a king, and I would personally see his head on a spike when the craven gathered the nerve to rebel again. I growled in frustration.

Author's Note: I didn't originally intend to kill off Roose this early but it just kinda ended up that way. Next chapter features Dany!


	4. The Begging Princess

**Disclaimer** : I do not own any aspect of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. These belong to HBO and George R. R. Martin respectively.

 **Author's Note** : I reiterate, Daenerys, Viserys, Ramsay (deceased) and Domeric are older in this fic than in canon. Daenerys is seventeen at this point in time, Viserys is twenty-five, and Domeric is twenty-two. I consider it a relatively minor change, in light of the fact that George R.R. Martin made a ridiculous number of the younger characters all born in a two to three year period during Robert's Rebellion. If it helps to keep things straight, just replace Roose's unknown first wife chronologically with Bethany Ryswell and imagine that Queen Rhaella had fewer miscarriages and stillbirths. Also, while it may seem like only characters that are pretty well universally hated have died up to this point, once we move into the events of the War of the Five Kings, that will change.

The Begging Princess

 **295 AC, Braavos**

As the _Dread_ gently sailed beneath the Titan of Braavos, I couldn't help but stand in awe of the majestic figure. Its sword disappeared into the clouds, making it look all the more magnificient. The three ships that accompanied the _Dread_ from Black Harbor, the growing town located at the mouth of the Weeping Water, trailed slowly behind us like ducklings following after their mother. The vast network of interconnected islands and canals brought to mind pictures of Venice that I had seen during my first life. We docked in the Ragman's Harbor, taking in the diverse menagerie of people hawking their wares. A young, waifish girl passed by selling cockles and I snorted in amusement.

My men began unloading the cargo, casks of a liquor that had become quite popular in the free cities after I had recreated it through trial and error: bourbon. Leaving my men to their work, I made my way towards my true destination. I took a small boat out to the island that was dominated by a rather unassuming temple. The only really distinctive feature it had was its doors. Climbing the steps to the temple, I opened the white door. The main chamber was dark, a fountain taking up the majority of the space. An immensely old dark-skinned man with braided white hair, clad in a sackcloth robe, approached me.

"Valar morghulis." I uttered, rather nervous.

"Valar dohaeris. How can a man serve?" The faceless man's voice was silkily smooth.

"I wish-I wish a man to be given the gift." I stuttered.

"Who shall receive the gift?" questioned the faceless man serenely.

"A man who has lived many years. It is time for him to meet the Many-Faced God." I said, with a little more confidence.

"What is this man's name?" I whispered it in his ear and I inquired as to payment.

"Nothing. You are the Two-Faced Man. You are a servant of the Many-Faced God, even if you do not know it. Know, however, that this is the only time you will receive such a gift." I froze before leaving, nearly running from the building, and my heart pounding in my chest. Of all the people to know that I was wreaking havoc with the natural order, the shape-shifting assassins that worshiped the God of Death were pretty far down on the list of my preferences. I walked through the streets of Braavos for hours, perusing the myriad goods on display from all over the known world.

As I rounded a corner just before dusk, my breath caught in my throat. Sitting on the side of the street, clad in fine clothes covered in a thin layer of dirt was someone that I had searched for each time I had visited the Secret City. Platinum tresses of hair cascaded down her back and vibrant violet eyes looked up pleadingly as people passed by, a small bowl in front of her. Here, the rightful princess of Dragonstone, Daenerys Targaryen, sat begging in the street, no doubt brought to such poverty by her brother's drinking and whoring. I knew I would have to handle this carefully. Varys's little birds no doubt kept a diligent eye on her and there was also the matter of her crazed brother, Viserys, to deal with. As if in answer to my fears, a young child peaked his head out from a dark corner, his gaze fixed on Daenerys.

I pulled my cowl up over my face and approached her. I had brought plenty of gold to pay the Faceless Men and I took it from my waist. Bending my knee to reach the bowl on the ground, I upended the bag, emptying fifty gold dragons into the small bowl, filling it to the brim. Her eyes widened in shock as she looked me in the eyes. Still kneeling, I whispered.

"My princess, if you are ever in need of refuge, merely come to the house with the green door, where the Green Canal meets the Long Canal." She nodded, tears of gratitude welling at the corners of her eyes. I knew that I could only offer shelter and pray that she would come calling, doing more out in the open like this, especially considering who I was, would be fool-hardy in the extreme. I smiled gently at her and rose to my feet, keeping my face hidden beneath my cowl as I passed by the child who I was reasonably sure was a servant of the Spider.

I made my way to the modest home I had purchased in the city, trusting my men to execute fruitful trades. While this was only my third trip to Braavos personally, my men had been coming here to ply their goods for years now. Ser Aston was now just as fine a merchant as he was a sailor and once Black Harbor was sufficiently large enough to sustain a castle, I planned to make him its lord. Half the casks on board the _Dread_ were just for the Sealord, who had taken a liking to the drink and now served it at the palace. The rest would be sold for gold or bartered for goods that we needed at the Dreadfort. I had instructed them that I specifically wanted anything made of valyrian steel, unlikely as finding it may be, Myrish navigational instruments for the burgeoning merchant fleet taking shape at Black Harbor, as well as spices. I heard a knock on my door, three quick raps on the door, followed by a pause, three more, and one final knock. I opened the door.

"Oberyn! What can I do for my favorite Dornish prince?" I questioned. Ellaria Sand, his paramour, clung to his arm. Both of them were clearly drunk. We had met on my first trip to Braavos at a particularly bawdy tavern. Recognizing the Red Viper, and knowing his favorite activities, I had challenged him to a contest that lasted three nights. The first night we drank, my hearty northern constitution barely edging out his Dornish hedonism. The next night we fought, the bout ending quickly with me on my back and his spear at my throat. The third and final night we seduced, each trying to bed more women than the other. In this, it seemed, we had met each other's match. Calling it a draw, we became fast friends. He was over a decade my senior, but a great person to spend time with. It was impossible to not have a good time when one was drinking and whoring with the Prince of Dorne.

"We saw the _Dread_ enter the harbor and thought I'd see if I could convince you to join my paramour and I for the night." He grinned roguishly. While I was forced to admit that Oberyn was objectively attractive, I held no desire for the intimate company of other men, something which displeased Oberyn, whose non-discriminating tastes were well-known.

"You know me better than that, you snake! Come on, come in. Make yourself at home. How long have you been in Braavos for?"

"We have been here for just under a moon. We-*hiccup*-are here celebrating my thirty-eighth nameday. Do you have any wine?" He asked abruptly. I gave him a withering gaze not only for asking such a question when he was already clearly very drunk, but also for entertaining the possibility that any home of mine would be lacking in spirits. I poured him a very small glass of a Dornish vintage I had picked up during my last visit to the city.

"Thank you. Now, what do you say we head to that brothel-Ellaria, what was its name?" he questioned.

"The Blushing Maid, my love." She purred.

"Yes, the Blushing Maid! What say you?" challenged the Prince of Dorne.

"I am afraid I must decline, my friend. I fear I am too weary of a traveler to be much fun tonight. Perhaps another time." We talked for a little while longer before the both of them left to continue their night of debauchery. I reclined in a comfortable seat, opening up a book on Braavosi history. I read for several hours and just before I was about to retire for the night I heard a faint tapping at my door, as if the person knocking was unsure whether they should or not. I opened it to see Daenerys, her eyes puffy and red from crying, a black eye marring her beautiful face and her dress torn. I ushered her inside.

"Princess, what happened to you?" I questioned, even as my rage threatened to boil over, knowing that her brother was likely responsible, and she burst into tears, clearly hysterical.

"It was my brother, Viserys!" she sobbed. "He saw the gold you gave me and thought I had sold my body. He said that with me spoiled, I wasn't good for anything but being a whore and that tomorrow, -*sniff*- instead of begging on the street, I'd be begging on my back! I tried to tell him about you but he called me a liar! He said I had woke the dragon and he hit me and then he- he- he started to tear at my clothes. He said if I was going to be a whore, I might as well be his whore. I didn't know what to do, I was so scared. But I kicked him, between his legs, and I just ran, I ran as fast as I could. Please, I don't know who you are but I don't have anywhere else left to go!" I was a little uncomfortable, not used to being put into the role of comforting women. I embraced her, letting her cry into my shoulder, letting out some of the pain and hurt that she had experienced at the hands of her brother. She continued to sob and I ran my hands along the top of her back. I held her until she fell asleep and I laid her down on the lounge on which I had been reading.

Instructing my two servants to watch over her, I stopped suppressing the rage that coursed through every fiber of my being. I could abide many things, but rape, even when only attempted, set my blood boiling. I left my home and went through the brothels, one by one, until I found him, thrusting violently into a gorgeous blonde. I waited, letting my anger fester, as he finished and left and I followed him, sticking to the shadows as the Beggar Prince staggered towards wherever he planned on sleeping for the night. Finally, when he turned down a dark, deserted alleyway I seized my chance.

Drawing a dagger from its sheath on my waist, I rushed him from behind. I kicked his knees out from under him and grabbed his long silver hair, pulling it upwards. His drunken state made it almost pathetically easy. I wondered how he had managed to survive this long with habits that made him so vulnerable. I slammed the pommel of my dagger against his skull, knocking him out. I ripped open his breeches and castrated the silver-haired sadist. He let out a scream as I did so, the pain rousing him before I bashed his head again.

'Let's see you become king as a eunuch." I thought with a malicious cackle, leaving him in the alley, letting the gods decide whether he would live. With any luck, he'd bleed out and die. I returned to my home and went to bed, after wrapping the sleeping princess in a blanket. I awoke near mid-day, my long night of stalking leaving me exhausted when I had returned in the pre-dawn hours. Daenerys was reading the book I had abandoned the previous night and I approached her.

"My princess, I believe I owe you an explanation of who I am. I am Domeric Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and vassal to House Stark. You need not fear me, and despite whatever your brother has told you, I would never hurt you." Her eyes widened in terror when she heard the name of my house and my liege. My words slightly allayed her fear, but I could still see that she was immensely wary of me. Her meekness was convenient for the current moment, if fury-inducing given its source.

"My house did rise up against your father when Lord Stark called his banners, but you must understand that King Aerys was not the same man that he was when he took the throne. His captivity during the Defiance of Duskendale deeply changed him, and not for the better. He grew paranoid and obsessed with fire. When your older brother Rhaegar eloped with Lyanna Stark, my liege lord's sister, Brandon Stark, heir to Wintefell, rode to King's Landing to retrieve her. He yelled at Prince Rhaegar from beyond the walls of the Red Keep to 'come out and die' for dishonoring his sister. King Aerys had him thrown in the black cells and ordered his father to come to King's Landing to answer for his son's treason."

"However, when Lord Rickard Stark arrived, it was to a court of a king completely insane. When Lord Rickard requested a trial-by-combat, Aerys chose fire as his champion and had Lord Stark suspended above a pot of blazing wildfire, laughing as the man cooked in his armor. Lord Brandon was strapped to a strangling device with a sword placed just out his reach and forced to watch. He choked himself to death trying to reach for the sword to save his father." With each word, Daenerys's face grew more and more horrified. I could only guess that Viserys had fed her a completely different story. I decided to leave out the part where Lyanna had quite possibly been taken against her will by Prince Rhaegar, not wanting to completely shatter her ideas about her family. All that was necessary was that she understand why the Seven Kingdoms rose against her father. Suddenly, the horror in her eyes turned to anger and I saw a small spark of the fire that would have originally seen her conquer Slaver's Bay.

"And why should I believe you? You serve the Usurper's dog!" she snapped.

"No, my princess, I serve the realm. And the realm is bleeding, make no mistake. King Robert, the Usurper as you call him, feasts and whores away the royal treasury and is deeply in debt to both the Iron Bank and his good-father, Tywin Lannister. With the King unable to pay back the debt to his good-father, much less the Iron Bank, it is only a matter of time before the Iron Bank starts directing funds towards deposing Robert and installing a ruler more willing to give them their due. Your father, for all his flaws, was a shrewd manager of the Crown's finances, and I have no doubt that you would be their first choice in terms of who would succeed Robert."

"What about Viserys?" she questioned.

"I will never let a man like Viserys take the Iron Throne. He would be a second coming of your father. You need not worry about him anymore. I went out last night and meted out suitable punishment for what he did."

"What did you do to him?" she asked fearfully. It amazed me that despite all of his crimes, she still worried for his life.

"I delivered the same sentence to him as I would have to any rapist in my hold. He is now a eunuch, making him not only unfit for the Iron Throne but also unable to hurt any other woman as he tried to hurt you." Her eyes widened, shocked that I had the nerve to geld her brother. For years, he had been an unquestionable authority, and the idea of him receiving a bit of justice seemed to both astound and please her. I was glad I had decided to stay my blade from slitting his throat. That would have made her much more hostile towards me, no doubt.

"So what do you want? What do you stand to gain from helping me?" she said, still suspicious.

"I merely want what is best for the realm and I see in you a possibility for a better future. A ruler who understands the struggles of her people. A ruler who cares about the well-being of her people. I see in you the potential to be a truly great queen. Only time will tell whether you will live up to my expectations. " Daenerys seemed taken aback, hearing words of such confidence from someone who, to her knowledge, had just met her and was a sworn enemy of her family. I worried if I had perhaps gone too far and had my words mistaken for empty flattery, but to my great relief, her eyes softened and her trusting nature overcame her suspicion.

-X-

I left Braavos with a smirk on my face. Freeing Daenerys from her brother pleased me greatly. Most of my words to her had been true, but a fair bit of manipulation had been used as well. She was a critical player in the game of thrones, and I had been eager to secure her loyalty for myself. I gifted her the house that I owned and left her with two of my most devoted servants.

Still, I felt a strange twinge of guilt for having manipulated Daenerys. I had initially seen her as merely a political means to an end, but as I spent time with her in Braavos, I began to care for her. I viciously tried to stamp out these feelings, knowing that not only should I marry someone more palatable to the rest of Westeros, but also that she could be killed at any moment by assassins sent by King Robert, regardless of any actions I took, and that by caring for her, I opened myself up to the potential pain of her loss.

When we arrived back at the Dreadfort, I received news that excited me greatly. The Faceless Men had delivered the gift of death to the one I chose. Walder Frey, the ancient Lord of the Twins was dead. Not only was he dead, but infighting had broken out among his many children over the lordship of his keep, leading to the worst rash of kin-slaying in recent memory. Eventually, Lord Hoster Tully, despite his growing age, had to march up the Trident to the Twins with a host of two thousand men to restore order. They were still working out who exactly had the rightful claim to the Twins between all the deaths and figuring out who had relinquished their claim by participating in the kin-slaying.

 **Author's Note** : A reviewer questioned the realism of the _Dread_ being capable of holding a million gold dragon's worth of treasure. While that number was never meant as a precise amount, I would like to clarify some things. Euron had been raiding the Westerlands, the undisputed richest of the Seven Kingdoms, for at least four weeks so I don't think that figure is beyond the amount he could have looted in that time period. Using a United States dollar coin as a measure of size, one million coins would fit within a two meter by two meter by two meter space. So volume is clearly no problem. That just leaves weight. Calculating the weight of a million gold coins does come out to be much heavier than I would think a ship of its size could bear. However, in my mind, I doubt Euron would keep anything but the most valuable of the looted treasure aboard the _Silence_. That means gems, valyrian steel, etc., which are both more valuable and several times less dense than pure gold. Thus, provided Euron was sufficiently selective of what looted treasure he took for himself, rather than leaving aboard the other ships of his fleet, I think the approximate value of the treasure being in the upper hundreds of thousands of dragons to just over a million dragons is at least plausible.


	5. It's All Fun and Games

**Disclaimer** : I do not own any aspect of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. These belong to HBO and George R.R. Martin respectively.

 **Author's Note 1** : Ser Eryn Whitehill is an OC I created to fill the role of the Dreadfort's Master-At-Arms. He is the younger brother of Lord Ludd Whitehill. Maester Goodwin is an OC I created to fill the role of the Dreadfort's maester, originally from a cadet branch of House Glover before his studies at the Citadel and the subsequent relinquishment of his family name. Unfortunately, the household of House Bolton is not examined in much detail in the books or TV show so OCs have to fill it. I don't particularly like non-SI OCs in general, so I try to limit their appearances in this fic as much as possible.

 **Author's Note 2** : When speaking of left and right during the jousts, the direction referred to is always that of the person on the receiving end of the blow.

It's All Fun and Games

 **297 AC, King's Landing**

I opened my eyes, staring at the canopy of the bed which I had been afforded in the Red Keep. The room was quite modest, the higher quality rooms reserved to lords and ladies of far more importance than I, at least in the eyes of the court.

' _At least I don't have to sleep in the tents, like those poor bastards_.' I thought, referring to the group of knights I had brought with me from the Dreadfort.

I rose and dressed myself, strapping my most precious possession to my side: _Ravager_. The Valyrian steel hand-and-a-half sword was forged by Tobho Mott from the daggers I took from Euron Greyjoy. The grip was made of weirwood that I had gathered myself from the godswood of the Dreadfort, wrapped with Myrish silk, alternating between navy and pink. The guard was plain and resting in the pommel, instead of a precious gem, was a carved ironwood medallion depicting a man flayed of his skin, crafted by House Forrester. Despite my best efforts, the Whitehills and the Forresters were still feuding, but I guess I couldn't expect to end centuries of mutual hatred and disdain with some honeyed words and trade agreements. It mattered little for the moment; House Forrester's ironwood was far too valuable a resource for me to spurn simply to appease a vassal house that had been unwaveringly loyal for centuries and was unlikely to betray me given all I had done for them. Someone banged against my door and I heard a voice shout out.

"Lord Bolton, you must wake up! It's only twenty minutes until your match!" With a curse, I opened the door to find Bran Stark, my page. I was proud that he remembered to use my proper title. While I allowed more familiarity in private, having my page shout my given name where anyone could hear would not be received well by the other lords and ladies of the court. Bran was still too young to be considered a squire, but since I lacked one, he was forced to pick up some of the slack. I had taken him as my page the previous year as a favor to Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, who both wished for him to experience life outside the gates of Winterfell and hopefully put a stop to his potentially self-destructive climbing habit. I broke into a run, Bran struggling to keep up with me with his shorter legs. I hopped atop Genghis and pulled him up with me before setting the horse forth in a quick trot through the city streets. In a few minutes we reached the gates and the tournament grounds. This tournament had been organized to celebrate Joffrey's twelfth name-day, or mourn it, as the case may be. While I was no master of the blade by any means, my lance work was incredible and had been honed over years of practice.

' _It's a shame that lances have such limited use on the battlefield_.' I thought grumpily.

I dismounted from Genghis, lifting the young Stark boy down as well, before striding into a modest tent flying the flag of my house. The tournament had rather few competitors, so finding the tent hadn't taken long. I hurriedly strapped on my steel armor and grabbed a large shield that I had personally designed and had forged for tourneys. I vividly remembered the way that Ser Hugh of the Vale had died at the hands of Gregor Clegane and I knew that such things were more common than the show or books depicted. I was not going to let that happen to me if I could help it. It was steeply curved, like a Roman scutum to encourage glancing blows and broke outwards sharply at the top, nearly at a ninety-degree angle, to prevent opposing lances from riding up the shield into my neck. However, the guard had a semicircular depression at the very center of the shield. To wield while riding, it had a rather large portion of the inner bottom quadrant cut out and it was finished with the traditional flayed man motif.

I grabbed a thick lance, made of ash, and rushed outside again to see Bran smoothing the caparison on Genghis. I leapt atop the horse just as I heard the trumpets sound for my match. Whipping the reins, I headed towards the field, noticing that my first opponent was Edmure Tully. He had just returned to Riverrun from the Twins, where he spent two years as its regent while the new Lord Frey, Olyvar, was being fostered with Lord Tully to learn the responsibilities of lordship, having never been taught such things by his father due to his position so far down in the line of succession. However, he was the oldest eligible male Frey left after so many had been killed and others either executed or sent to the Wall for kin-slaying.

Lord Tully had found Olyvar and his sister Roslin rowing down the Green Fork on his march, having barely escaped the Twins through the sacrifice of their brother Perwyn after Black Walder Rivers killed Stevron Frey and seized power, trying to kill off as many true-born male Freys as he could to eliminate rival claimants to the Twins. Personally, I didn't understand the bastard's thought process. It's not like the Tully's would let the murder of so many of House Frey go unanswered even if he had succeeded. Perhaps the bastard was just mad. That seemed to be the most likely explanation. The Tully host, though small, had stormed the castle and executed Black Walder.

At the King's command, trumpets blared and I urged Genghis forward, the large destrier galloping at a full run. It took three tilts to unhorse the young trout, but a mirthful smirk adorned my face once I saw him laying in the mud. Three hedge knights and four minor lords followed before I faced someone more significant. Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Master of Laws sat atop a sleek horse clearly built for speed. He was skilled, but his blows lacked resolve and I unseated him on the second tilt. He seemed to enjoy the partying that accompanied the tournament much more than the lists themselves.

' _I'd hate to see what would happen to him in a real battle_.' I thought, snorting.

I next faced Lord Beric Dondarrion. During the first tilt, he managed to strike me hard, no doubt leaving a bruise on my right shoulder, but failed to unseat me. The next tilt went in my favor, as he let his shield slip and I thrust my lance right into his breastplate, winding him. Three more tilts we went, before I slipped my lance beneath his shield, breaking it against his armor, and sending him tumbling out of his saddle. At this point, I had a small break, which I filled with drinking down a great amount of water fetched by Bran. I watched Loras Tyrell unseat Jaime Lannister to the shock of the crowd. Bran handed me a new lance and I headed back out to field.

My next match was the semifinal, my opponent being one I had hoped to avoid facing. Ser Barristan Selmy, clad in the white armor of the Kingsguard, sat serenely atop his horse, staring me down from across the field. The trumpet sounded and I charged, lowering my lance and hoping that he might be slipping in his old age. My hopes were empty. His shield never wavered an inch and though he let out a grunt as my lance struck, he seemed nearly unfazed. On the other hand, when I felt his strike me, right in the very center of my shield, I was thrown back in my saddle so hard my back nearly touched the back of my horse. Barely maintaining my balance, I threw myself forward with a grunt as I turned around for the next tilt.

The trumpet sounded and I charged again. His skills were impeccable, but it was his sheer strength that awed me. His lance might as well have been the eighteen-wheeler that ended my first life for how much chance I stood of withstanding another direct hit. I knew I'd have to be crafty and use my shield skillfully if I wanted to even stand a chance against the aged knight. I lowered my lance as we approached each other, bracing myself for the impact against my shield. As his lance inched closer and closer I steeled myself. Just before it hit, I threw my upper body forward, catching the tip of his lance at the most concave part of my shield rather than where he had been intending to strike. It slid past with a _schlick_ and at the same time, I thrust my lance low, trying to catch him just to the right of where his shield ended. It struck and I heard him let out a throaty growl as the wooden lance broke against his plate cuirass in the area of his liver. I looked at him as Bran fetched me a new lance and I saw him examining me with a more discerning gaze, obviously seeing that I was more skilled than he had initially thought.

The trumpet sounded again and we rushed at each other once more. I knew I had to take a chance, the shield bash trick wouldn't work a second time. If my timing wasn't right, I'd be unhorsed instantly. As we approached each other, I drew my shield further to the right and outwards as though tired, leaving my left shoulder exposed. Baiting him with the opening, I waited until he was almost upon me. His lance tip was eight feet away. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Just as it was about to strike, with a mighty heave, I jerked my shield back to a normal position, knocking the lance off-course just as it was about to connect. My own lance struck out trying to catch his right shoulder. He ended up catching it on the very right corner of his shield and he seemed to flail around for a moment, trying to stay on his horse, but righted himself quickly.

As I reached the end of the field, I tossed my lance down and shouted at Bran to bring me a slightly shorter one. While I was waiting, I grabbed the two tiny levers on the inside of shield and pulled them, the semicircular gap in the steel throat guard rotating one-hundred and eighty degrees to form a ring and locking into place. This was my last gambit. I had been practicing this maneuver for months with my men-at-arms as opponents. Grabbing the shorter lance from Bran, I turned around and waited for the trumpet blast. Hearing it, I rode hard, my form impeccable as we approached each other for the fourth tilt. I saw Ser Barristan aiming for the upper right corner of my shield. If such a blow hit, I had little doubt I'd be on the ground on my back. Attempting to make a last second adjustment to where the blow would land, I shifted my shield to the right and tilted it back. His lance struck just right of the center of my shield, grinding up the surface. I intended to hook the lance into the ring at the top of my shield, allowing me to thrust my shield upwards and open up his defense. Time seemed to slow.

I looked on in horror as I saw the lance wasn't lined up correctly to slide into the ring. The lance struck the ring itself and the shield was torn from my arm. I let out a cry of pain from the impact, however, the impact had also jarred Ser Barristan, leaving him tilted back on his horse and off-balance. Knowing this was my only chance, I slammed the end of my lance into the bottom left corner of his shield as hard as I could, overextending myself and nearly falling off Genghis as I did it. I couldn't breathe as time crawled to a standstill. I let out a shout half of victory and half of disbelief as I saw him toppling off his saddle, shocked that even with my oft-praised lance skills that I had managed to unseat the legendary knight. The crowd was silent for a moment before they erupted in cheers.

Now all that remained was the final. I hoped that Loras hadn't thought to ride a mare in heat like he would at the Tourney of the Hand. There was an intermission before the final during which the melee was to take place and I sought out the young Knight of Flowers, deciding that psychological warfare was the name of the game today. Renly had just been made Master of Laws only a single moon ago and it was not yet known that he and the Knight of Flower were, ahem, _friendly_. I had nothing against men with such inclinations, but I knew that a man's loved ones, regardless of their gender, were an easy way to stoke their temper. Not to mention, the fact that I knew about him and Renly should serve to really freak him out. I found him in his tent, alone surprisingly, and I spoke to him.

"It looks as though we're to face each other in the finals." He glared up at me, obviously upset at how I had humiliated Renly earlier. I guessed that in past tournaments others had gone easy on Renly out of a misguided sense of loyalty to King Robert. It was the only solution I could come up with as to how he had managed to 'win' any tournaments, which I knew that he had.

"You seem to have a penchant for stating the obvious, Lord Bolton. I hope you're ready to lose, I have a Queen of Love and Beauty to crown." He drawled.

"Oh, a Queen of Love and Beauty! What would Lord Renly think? I know I trounced him but that's hardly a reason to abandon him! " I exclaimed sardonically. His eyes widened near imperceptibly.

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean." He said, his voice cold and smooth, but I could hear the very slight quiver in his voice at the end.

"Oh, nothing of much import. I hope you'll fair better, I'd hate for this tourney to be too easy." I replied calmly. With a predatory smile, I bowed mockingly and left the tent, having heard Loras grit his teeth. Both anger and anxiety, a perfect combination to cause an otherwise skilled knight to falter on the field. I let out a cruel bark of laughter as I walked back to my own tent for some refreshments. Bran was hard at work repairing my shield and I ruffled his hair as I passed by him to pour myself a cup of wine.

Swirling the red liquid around the cup I pondered the events that would happen after this tournament. The Seven Kingdoms were about to erupt like a powder keg and all my preparations were coming to a head. I had a basic plan for how I wanted the War of the Kings to play out, but I was smart enough to realize that plans rarely survive first contact with the enemy. The best I could do is to place myself in as an advantageous position as I could before everything started to go to hell in a handbasket and then improvise from that point on.

-X-

After Yohn Royce emerged victorious from the melee, I donned my helm and rode out across the field, waving at all the spectators as I passed. I received a respectable amount of cheers but admittedly far less than the more handsome and more well-known, at least in the South, Loras Tyrell. He had a gleaming smile on his face, the consummate showman, but I noticed the malicious glint in his eyes as he turned his gaze to me. As the trumpet blasted, I charged, aiming my lance for the upper right quadrant of his shield. He took the hit and thrust his lance towards my throat. Glad that Bran had managed to repair my shield in time, I caught the lance on the guard and its tip broke against the steel.

' _This little bastard is actually trying to kill me!_ ' I thought as a new lance was fetched for the knight from Highgarden. ' _I can't even defend myself with lethal force, since I'd like to secure an alliance with the Reach once the War of the Five Kings starts. The Queen of Thorns wouldn't care about a tourney loss, but if her precious grandson died at my hands we'd be facing a hundred thousand Reachmen before long_.' The trumpet rang out and I charged again, noticing that Loras was letting his lance drop lower than was wise.

' _What is he planning?'_ I wondered. I realized far too late. Loras's lance avoided me entirely. He drove it straight into Genghis's unarmored neck, sending the horse, and by extension me, tumbling to ground. I barely managed to free myself and leap away, avoiding serious injury. I drew _Ravager_ and beheaded the only horse I had ridden since the day my father had gifted him to me, ending the poor animal's suffering. Boos echoed across the field at Loras's action. While not grounds for disqualification, it was considered a craven act and the crowd showed their displeasure. A new steed, a mare, was soon acquired and I stepped into the saddle. My vision reddened as my temper boiled at the Tyrell's actions. Unlike my father, whose easily-riled temper was calm and cold, mine was harder to rouse, but explosive when it was.

I whipped the horse into a frenzy as I charged him. He was angry that his last two attempts had been unsuccessful. I watched him carefully, waiting for the mistake I knew was bound to come. There! His shield positioning had slipped and his chest was left unprotected. I took a deep breath and lunged, planting my lance right below his sternum and _pushed_. He didn't just fall, he _flew_ off his horse. The crowd cheered, having turned on Loras for killing my horse. The victory was bittersweet. Genghis had been a beast of a horse, as much weapon as steed, capable of caving in a man's chest in the blink of an eye. Not only that, he had been the last gift Roose had given me before his death and a constant companion during my time as Lord of the Dreadfort. I leapt off the loaned horse and approached Loras. I hauled him to his feet, his helm flying off, and delivered a haymaker right into his jaw, sending him back into the mud. Leaving him there clutching his face, I approached the royal family and knelt.

"Lord Domeric Bolton, I, King Robert Baratheon, First of my Name declare you the winner of this tournament, held in honor of my son and heir, Prince Joffrey Baratheon's twelfth name-day. Who will you name your Queen of Love and Beauty?" the King said, having risen. Jon Arryn, Hand of the King and this tournament's Master of Games, approached with a crown of red roses upon a cushion. I took it and approached the only northern woman of marrying age there. I laid the crown in the lap of Lady Dacey Mormont, declaring her my Queen of Love and Beauty. The warrior-woman, not expecting such an honor, blushed as she thanked me. I bowed and, after retrieving the twenty-thousand dragon winner's purse, retreated back to the Red Keep.

I spent three more days in King's Landing, negotiating with Tobho Mott. I wanted to take his apprentice, Gendry Waters, back with me to the Dreadfort to serve a smith. The Qohorik smith was adamant about keeping the boy in King's Landing, making me wonder whether he knew more about the boy's parentage than he claimed, but I eventually wore him down on the issue. I encouraged Bran to introduce himself to Princess Myrcella, who I noticed he seemed to have developed a bit of a crush on. I departed the capital with a small retinue, astride a newly-purchased pitch-black destrier that breathed particularly loudly. The stable-master assured me that it was not a medical issue, rather a harmless result of his immense size. I named him Vader, for obvious reasons.

 **Author's Note 3** : If Loras's reaction seems a little excessive given the interaction between him and Domeric, it's probably a result of my rewriting the interaction within the tent after the rest of the chapter was finished. I don't think it's too OOC since Loras has a considerable temper himself. Considering the horrific tragedy that occurred this week in Orlando, FL and the immense grief that the LGBT community is facing, I rewrote that section to remove some of the more offensive comments meant to anger Loras. I may publish the original version at some point, but I felt it wouldn't be prudent given the current circumstances. If anyone who reads this story has any connection to the truly awful events that have transpired, you have my deepest and most heart-felt condolences.

 **Author's Note 4** : Thank you all for the reviews. Not only does each one give me more motivation to continue working on this story, but they also provide me with perspectives that I hadn't necessary thought of. I'm coming up with the plot for this story as I write it, rather than working from a plan like a plot outline, so hearing your opinions is helping to shape the direction that I take this story in. Thank you all, even those who gave negative reviews, they make me really go back and look at the work I've done and how I could have done it better.


	6. Interlude: Ice and Fire

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any aspect of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. These belong to HBO and George R.R. Martin respectively.

 **Author's Note** : Sorry for the long delay for this chapter, I was deeply dissatisfied with it for some time, but I managed to make a few changes that reinvigorated my muse. This chapter consists almost entirely of flashbacks and is the last chapter before we move into the events of the series.

Interlude: Ice and Fire

Opening up the message, I sighed heavily. Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, was dead. It was finally time to see if all the preparations I had made would be enough to alter the horrific future that would have occurred had I not intervened. My thoughts wandered, thinking back to the events of previous years.

-X-

 **293 AC, The King's Road**

I gasped as it came into view. It was hundreds of feet tall and stretched as far as I could see. The Wall, the greatest monument of Bran the Builder. I rode slowly onwards to Castle Black, a caravan containing arms and provisions tottering behind me. As we reached the gate, I held out my hand to tell the caravan to stop and yelled out.

"Open the gates for the Lord of the Dreadfort!" There was some scurrying atop the walls before the gates creaked open slowly. A small group waited for me just inside the gate. As I approached, one I recognized as Alliser Thorne spoke.

"We don't get many lords up here other than Stark. What'd you want, Bolton?"

"That's Lord Stark and Lord Bolton to you, cur. And if you must know, I bring arms and provisions for you sorry lot." Thorne looked rebellious but I ignored him. I turned to one of his compatriots, who I recognized as a man from my hold who had volunteered for the Night's Watch. I try to hold a feast in the Dreadfort for each man who volunteers along with his family.

"Fetch the Lord Commander, I need to speak with him." He nodded.

"Aye, Lord Bolton." He turned and left. I handed my horse off to the stable-master and gestured for the caravan to continue inside. They began to unload the food and I could hear startled exclamations from around Castle Black as the black brothers saw our haul. I was firmly of the opinion that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach. I saw an old man descending the stairs and I turned towards Lord Commander Jeor Mormont.

"What can I do for you, Lord Bolton?"

"Let's take this somewhere private, Lord Commander. We've got much to talk about." He nodded, his face perpetually somber. I followed him back up the stairs to his solar.

"I and my men appreciate the supplies, Lord Bolton, but why are you really here?"

"A few reasons. Firstly, I noticed Castle Black looks lightly-manned. I know I'm no Stark, but I'd like to know the state of the Watch just the same."

"The Watch has declined, there's no denying it. We only occupy three of the castles on the Wall now and each castle is only lightly-manned. We often lack food and other necessities. The defenses of the Wall are in disrepair as well."

"It is as I feared. I'll start doing what I can to increase recruitment to the Night's Watch, and not just criminals. I'll send men roaming throughout the North, telling tales of your valor and offering rewards to a man's family if he joins the Watch. I'm quarrying the crags north of the Dreadfort, so you'll get stone to repair your castles."

"I appreciate it greatly, Lord Bolton. Lord Stark has seen our condition, but he seems to have little in terms of ideas to boost our number."

"I noticed the Gift is nearly deserted. Why?"

"Wildling attacks. Not many smallfolk are willing to live close to the Wall when the threat of wildlings looms over them constantly."

"I have plenty of farmers. And soldiers for their defense. If you let my men farm and protect it, I think we could come to an agreement regarding proper shares of the crops."

"The Gift belongs to the Night's Watch, Lord Bolton. You have no right to what it produces."

"And without me, it produces nothing. These are my terms. Each farmer keeps what they need to survive for themselves. Of the remaining, nine-tenths goes to the Night's Watch and the other tenth goes to the Dreadfort." Mormont looked pensive.

"And you say you can get us more men?"

"Aye. I'd have every castle on the Wall manned if it was up to me. I'll have men shouting to all can hear of the glory and honor of the Night's Watch from the Last River to the Broken Branch and from the White Knife to the Narrow Sea. I'll also ask Lord Stark to do the same."

"Then we have an accord. People from your hold are free to settle on and farm the Gift. They will take what they need to live from their crops, and of the remaining the Night's Watch will receive nine-tenths. The remaining tenth will go to the Dreadfort. What have you brought to us today?"

"Salted pork and fish, vegetables, grain, furs, and castle-forged steel. And plenty of it."

"I have to ask, Lord Bolton. Why are you providing us with so much aid? We made the agreement about the Gift but I accepted your first offer, which will be a pittance for you as it is and you were no doubt willing to take less."

"Do you worship the Old Gods, Lord Commander?"

"Aye, Lord Bolton. When I can get out to the weirwood grove north of the Wall."

"I was praying in the godswood of the Dreadfort one evening and I was given a vision, Lord Commander. A vision of death, and the dead rising. I think you and I both know that this Wall wasn't built to keep out wildlings. This is the grandest achievement of men, and it was not made to protect us from other men. The Others will soon return and the Night's Watch is all that stands between them and the realms of men." Mormont's face was as grim as the tidings that I brought him.

 **-** X-

 **295 AC, Edge of the Bay of Seals**

I shivered, the cold winds of the bay tearing against my skin as I stood aboard the top deck of the _Dread_. We had just crested Storrold's Point, our cargo holds laden with food. I had taken only those who owed their lives to me, mostly smallfolk who I had taken into the Dreadfort during the winter following the Greyjoy Rebellion. We flew a white flag, but I was still immensely nervous. I knew this was an incredibly risky gambit, however I needed some way to get the Free Folk on the other side of the Wall and therefore not able to be used as fodder for an undead army. We approached the shores of the settlement known as Hardhome and anchored. I, along with five of my men, took a small skiff and landed on the shore. The men and some spearwives had started to gather, looking at me with malice.

"Who speaks for the Free Folk? I would have bread and salt!" I shouted, startling them. One of them, a hulking brute with a gnarled visage, approached me.

"And who are you, ya little kneeler? Why shouldn't I just gut ya where ya stand?"

"You can try. But then you'd be kneeling too once I cut your legs off at the knees." I said, looking him straight in the eyes, refusing to show an ounce of weakness. His grinned and his hand reached for his blade. I dropped to one knee, drawing _Ravager_ from its sheath on my back. In one fluid slash, the Valyrian steel sliced through his flesh like so much butter, severing his legs just below the knees like I had threatened. He screamed for a moment before I took my blade and slit his throat. I wiped my blade on his clothes and turned to the assembled wildlings.

"Anybody else wanna become a kneeler too? Or ya gonna fetch me some bread and salt?" I shouted again. This time another man approached. I recognized him from my past life: Tormund Giantsbane, husband to bears.

"Aye, we'll take ya to Mance. He'll wanna speak to ya." He said. He looked at the corpse and spit on it.

"Never liked that cunt. Always looking at my Munda like he was gonna steal her." We both grinned and I followed him, my men trailing shortly behind. The mass of Free Folk parted way for us to pass and soon I found myself in a ramshackle hut. Mance Rayder sat at a thick, roughly-carved wooden table. He looked up as we entered and slowly rose.

"Tormund, who's this?" he questioned, his voice deep and hard.

"Some kneeler. Got a ship out in the bay. Requested bread and salt. Killed Jorren in self-defense when the little bastard tried to gut him." Mance looked me up and down, no doubt noticing my expensive furs and the sword on my back.

"Tormund, fetch the man some bread and salt. We're Free Folk, not savages. You. What's your name and what do ya want?"

"Domeric Bolton. I've got a proposition for you."

"Bolton, huh? You ever flay anybody?" I grinned toothily.

"Not yet." Mance let out a cold, barking laugh. Tormund returned and I took some hard bread and sprinkled salt on it, shoving it in my mouth.

"So what's this proposal you got for us?"

"Life. The cold winds are rising and with it the dead. You know what I speak of?" Mance seemed shocked into silence. I began to think that I might have broken him, but his face grew hard and he spoke grimly.

"Aye, I know what you speak of. That's why I'm gathering the Free Folk together. You telling me the southerners know what's coming?"

"No, I'm the only one. The Old Gods, they gave me a vision of what was to come." I lied. I had decided that this would be the easiest way to explain my foreknowledge, at least to the superstitious people of the far north.

"If the gods are doing shit like that, we must be well and truly doomed. What's your plan then?"

"First we gotta all the Free Folk south of the Wall. Here, you're just waiting to be slaughtered and turned into wights. That'll be the hardest thing. You've gotta convince as many of your people as you can to abide by the laws of the kingdoms. The Old Ways are gonna have to change. I can't have you come south if you're going to rape, raid, and murder. I've brought food and plenty of it for your people. More will come. I'd like to leave men here to teach your people our ways. It'd have to be slow. A mass migration would do nothing but send the other lords into a panic and they'd kill the both of us. I take it you planned on storming the Wall?"

"Aye, that was my plan. You ask a lot, and not all of them will agree. Ever. They're too set in their ways and I can only command them to do so much. We're all free men here. My leadership lasts only as long as it's good for them."

"I know. What's better for them though? Staying here and living by the old ways or coming south, even if you have to obey the law." Mance just looked at me harshly. He let out a long-suffering sigh.

"Aye, you're right. How are you gonna find land for them? You're Lord Bolton, aren't you? Your lands already have people on them."

"Not all of them. I'm building two cities. One at the Dreadfort and one at the mouth of the Weeping Water. People will move into those cities and learn trades. That'll leave plenty of farmland empty. I also have quarries, which need strong men. They'd be given a fair wage and housing for their families. I need fishermen too. As long as we do it slowly and do it right, we can make this work."

"Will you want them to kneel?" Mance questioned, and I knew this was a test.

"Not to me or any man. To the law. Each man, woman, and child will live a free life. A life spent in fear of your neighbor stealing your food, killing your children, and stealing your wife is not freedom. That's kneeling, just a different kind. That's kneeling to yourself, to the beast inside of you. And if you will not kneel to a man, why would you kneel to a beast?" The former ranger looked at me thoughtfully.

"I'll tell my people of your offer, but I can make no promises. This life is all they've ever known. Not to mention, many of them will think that once we're on your ships, you'll just slit our throats and toss us over the side."

"Every member of the Free Folk has my word, on the Old Gods, that no harm will come to them by my hand or order, so long as they abide by the laws of the Seven Kingdoms." Mance nodded and we ended our meeting. He went to speak to his people and I gave the order for the food to be brought. Barrels of salted fish, salted pork, potatoes, other vegetables, and grain were brought ashore. The Free Folk, especially the children, looked on in awe at the abundance of food. I had no doubt they had never seen so much in their entire lives. The lives of the Free Folk were hard, and anything that made those lives easier would doubtless be welcome. After some time, Mance approached me.

"They want to hear it from you. They want to look at you when you say they'll be free. They want to see your eyes when you say no harm will come to them." I nodded and climbed atop a small building. I looked out at the assembled masses. Easily hundreds, maybe even a few thousand. I was grateful that Mance had not yet assembled his full host, and that the majority of those that had flocked to him were the more reasonable of the Free Folk. I cleared my throat and roared.

"FREE FOLK! My name is Domeric Bolton! I control much land south of the Wall and I come to you with an offer of true freedom! Freedom from living in fear of the harsh winter, freedom from living in fear of the Crows, and freedom from the army of the dead that will march upon this place once winter comes! Mance has told you my offer! I do not ask you to kneel! All I ask is that you stop kneeling! Kneeling to the beast that lives in all of our hearts, the beast that tells us to rob, raid, rape, and murder! Live on my lands, live by my laws, and I will give you food and homes to sleep in! You will always be welcome to bread and salt in my castle! And when winter comes, those of you who are willing will stand with me on top of the Wall to send those white cunts back into the ground for another eight thousand years and spit on their undead army! The Wall was not built to keep you out! It is time you were protected by it rather than trapped!" I had been a fairly good orator in my past life and the skill had carried over. There were some who booed, that was unavoidable. Some even cheered, which was more than I had expected, no doubt more because of the food I brought than my words. The majority looked thoughtful, which had been my aim. I descended from my perch and clasped arms with Mance.

"One more thing. You know the man named Craster? The one who marries his daughter and spies for the Night's Watch?"

"Aye, I know him. What of it?"

"He needs to be killed. Each one of his sons that he leaves in the woods to die is taken and becomes another one of the Others. I don't know how, but it needs to stop. They have enough advantages as it is. The man worships the vile abominations as his gods. He is thrice accursed, for laying with his daughters, for killing his sons, and for worshipping the others."

"Truly?"

"Aye. Add his daughters, wives, whatever they are, to your host. Anything's better than what he's doing to them."

"It'll be done. The Watch won't like it, but what can they do? They'll never come this far north."

-X-

 **297 AC, King's Landing**

"Might I speak with you in private, Lord Bolton?" The voice startled me, having thought I was alone. My eyes darted back and forth, seeing nothing, before I smelled the perfume. Relaxing, I spoke.

"Of course, Lord Varys. I think a talk between us would be very beneficial." The plump, bald eunuch stepped out from behind a pillar and walked forward silently. I followed him to his chambers.

"Now what could the Master of Whispers want with an unimportant lord of the North like myself?" I questioned cheekily.

"Oh, very much it would seem. You are a curious one, aren't you Lord Bolton? I never cared for your father, I must admit, but you're so delightfully different from him. I think you know exactly what I wish to speak to you about."

"Oh, perhaps a little bird has sung you a song about another little bird? Or something else with wings at least? Are you sure there are no mockingbirds flittering about? They can be quite bothersome, in my opinion. I find their song to be so…treacherous. You get distracted by the beauty of their song and it can lead you over a cliff, not unlike Luthor Tyrell. Although in his case, I believe pure stupidity to be the cause." Lord Varys let out a quiet little laugh.

"Oh no, there are no mockingbirds here. I quite agree with your assessment. Now, I have heard a song from one of little birds in Braavos. One I hesitated to believe. It seemed too fantastical to be true."

"You would do well to believe it, Lord Varys. I believe we have a common goal in this matter. I believe that the rare little creature that lives in my home in Braavos would be better suited to the climate in Westeros. It is truly a shame that there are some many predators here. Stags most of all. I've heard of one particular stag, a great beast of thing, constantly rutting and spreading its seed, which would very much like to hunt my little creature. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, I do believe I have heard of such a beast as well. Why, if such a creature were to learn of what you have, it might try to hunt you first."

"Undoubtedly. But I have the utmost confidence that the Spider can keep such knowledge away from the Stag. Don't you think that's true?"

"I think the Spider is more than capable of that. Might I ask, what are you plans for exporting such a vulnerable and exotic creature?"

"Why don't we just speak plainly? You say there is no one listening?"

"Yes, this is perhaps the only place in the castle where you can be sure of such a thing."

"Daenerys is in my home in Braavos. I think we both know that there'll be a crisis of succession when King Robert dies. The realm will bleed regardless of what we do. But if she comes at the head of an army, bringing peace to lands torn apart by lions and stags, the smallfolk will love her. Dorne will rally to her cause. I will try to secure the North for her. Once Robert is dead, Ned Stark will be much more agreeable. If we can get the Tyrells to join us at that point, the ensuing war will be quick. It would be even quicker if your friend Illyrio would send those wonderful eggs of his to her." I could tell Varys was deeply disturbed by the extent of my knowledge. I thought I'd let him chase ghosts concerning my tendency to know things I shouldn't.

"Those eggs are petrified, Lord Bolton. Pretty rocks and little else."

"Not so, Lord Varys. I give you my word. If you convince Illyrio to send those eggs, nothing will stand in her way." Varys's face, for the first time, betrayed uncertainty.

"What's your motivation in all this, Lord Bolton? Your father fought to end the Targaryen dynasty. You fought for Robert. Why throw your lot in with Daenerys?"

"Like you, Lord Varys, I serve the realm. When Prince Joffrey ascends to the throne, our lands will burn and our people will bleed. Fire and blood, Lord Varys, from which the last Targaryen will rise."

-X-

 **298 AC, Field Five Miles Outside the Dreadfort**

"Shield wall! Pikes! Now march!" I shouted at a phalanx of heavy infantrymen. I was personally conducting this month's military training. The Westerosi feudal system was not conductive to the creation of large professional armies like the one that my brother from my first life had been a veteran of. However, I was able to create something akin to the National Guard. At age twelve, all boys were issued a bow and began their military training. At age fifteen they were issued further equipment and assigned to a particular military division. All of my male subjects were required to participate in monthly military drill sessions after being assigned to their division. I had modelled my forces on what I could remember from the roman legions as well as the various other medieval and ancient militaries from my first life.

The equipment that each soldier carried depended on his assigned role. The majority of soldiers were light infantrymen. They were clad in boiled leather armor and chainmail, wielding a scutum emblazoned with the sigil of my house, and armed with heavy spears as a primary weapon with a short sword as a secondary weapon. Heavy infantrymen wore steel armor and carried pikes and longswords. The majority of my cavalry was lightly armored, armed with a recurve bow and a curved sword in the manner of the Mongolian hordes of my first life. Heavy cavalry was comprised solely of the knights sworn to my service, and were armed in the traditional Westerosi manner.

"Arrows incoming! Defensive formation!" I shouted randomly and watched approvingly as the troops adopted a formation that I affectionately called 'The Turtle'. The men instantly closed ranks and overlapped shields, forming an iron-tight defense against the imaginary incoming arrows. I'll admit, at first the men took these exercises rather lightly, but after I had the worst of the troublemakers publically scourged, the rest of the men quickly shaped up.

"Cannae maneuver! Stage one!" A flag resplendent with a charging elephant, in honor of Hannibal, was raised and a single horn blast was sounded. Reenacting the famous maneuver, my troops moved forward, forming a crescent. Once they had advanced what I judged to be a sufficient distance, I called out again.

"Stage two!" My order was followed by two horn blasts and marked the shift from advance to controlled retreat as the crescent of infantry inverted itself.

"Stage three!" Three horn blasts signaled my troops to finish the double-envelopment tactic. They lashed forward in a pincer movement and encircled the imaginary troops. I looked on approvingly, hoping that I would one day have the opportunity to utilize that particular maneuver on a real battlefield. I signaled the cessation of this month's training exercises and watched as the men of the second legion trudged their way along the roads back to their homes. I mounted my horse and returned to my keep, Bran Stark following behind me. Upon arriving at the outskirts of the as-of-yet-unnamed city that had sprung up in the shadow of the Dreadfort, I was set upon by Ygritte, the young former wildling woman had chosen to join the ranks of those who kept the peace within my lands after I had opened membership up to women.

"Lord Bolton, there's been a rape while you were away. He's been detained and awaits punishment."

"Does the woman live?" I questioned.

"No. It was Lydia, the baker's daughter. He carved her up like a piece of meat. We got her to the medics but she died soon after."

"Prepare a cross." She left, doing as I instructed. I sighed heavily.

' _A peaceful land, a quiet people._ ' I repeated in my head like a mantra. I had been hoping to return to my chambers after a long day of riding, enjoy some Dornish wine, and fuck an intoxicatingly beautiful Lyseni whore who had come on the last boat from the Free Cities. Now I had to execute this little shit. He was brought before me in chains and I could tell from one look at him that he was guilty. The little shit was smirking! Smirking! After what he did! I inquired as to his name.

"Jareth, for the crime of rape and murder, I, Domeric Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort sentence you to die in the name of King Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name, and in the name of Lord Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Bring forth the cross!" The smirk dropped from his face instantly. No doubt he had been planning on requesting the Wall. I had suspended the right to join the Night's Watch for those convicted of rape and murder since I had last heard that the Night's Watch was now successfully manning twelve of the castles on the Wall. A group of burly men dragged forth a large wooden cross. I would have liked to strap this cur to it upside down and flay him, but that particular punishment was still banned by House Stark.

"Hand me the hammer. And hold him down, I wanna get this over with quickly." I said dismissively. I lined up the large iron nail with his wrist and brought down the hammer with a mighty slam. He screamed at the excruciating pain. Blocking out the noise, I finished hammering in the nail and did likewise to the other wrist as well as his feet. I saw Bran retch, still unused to such gruesome sights. After affixing a sign detailing his crimes, I joined my men in hoisting the cross upright. The condemned let out an anguished scream as it dropped into the hole and settled. I posted two guards to watch over the man and end his life if he still lived past sundown.

-X-

 **Isolated Road, The North, 298 AC**

I dodged out of the way of the bandits axe, opening his throat with _Ravager_.

' _This is what I get for only taking a few men with me.'_ Our party had been set upon a day's ride away from the Dreadfort. Three of the ten men-at-arms I had with me were taken out instantly by a barrage of arrows before we even realized we weren't alone. We were on our way to inspect the farms to the southwest of my hold, a routine and normally uneventful action. I saw a bandit charging Bran, who was clearly terrified out of his mind. To his credit, he didn't try to flee, but rather drew the short sword on his waist. However, there was no way a boy his age would be able to fight off a full grown man.

I broke into a sprint and tackled the man before he could reach my young page. I punched him in the face as I tried to free my sword to end his life. The bandit, however, had the advantage of having a much shorter blade. He thrust it towards me and acting on instinct, I grabbed the blade. Pain erupted throughout my body as I felt my pinky get severed and I saw it fall, almost in slow-motion, to the ground. Seizing upon the strength that the pain and rage of losing a part of myself, however small, gave me, I shoved the bandit away and thrust my sword through his neck, his blood spraying all over me.

Suddenly I felt woozy, and I saw the intermittent arterial burst spewing from my mutilated hand. Looking around I was glad to see that my remaining men-at-arms had mopped up the rest of the bandit party and they rushed to bandage up my hand. Foregoing our mission, we hurried to return to the Dreadfort. After some time passed, I started to look at my injury with ironic amusement. I had lost my little finger but I would soon meet a new Littlefinger. Only this time, it'd be my blade, rather than a bandit's, that would do the maiming.

-X-

I sipped a glass of Arbor Gold as I stared balefully down at the missive regarding the Hand's death. Tossing back onto my desk I returned to the three whores currently occupying my bed chambers. Every man has their vices and tonight would be a night for indulgence, a calm before the looming storm.


End file.
